


Fire

by Agib



Series: Febuwhump 2020 [6]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Bombs, Derek Morgan is a self sacrificing idiot, Fire, Hurt Spencer Reid, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Aaron Hotchner, Protective Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid Scaring the Shit out of Everyone, Swearing, hearing loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:22:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22583248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agib/pseuds/Agib
Summary: Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid should not be trusted around fire, bombs and the like.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid & The BAU Team
Series: Febuwhump 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619311
Comments: 31
Kudos: 604





	1. 2x01 The Fisher King Part 2

**Author's Note:**

> It's nice to indulge spur of the moment fic ideas.
> 
> More chapters to be added :)
> 
> Moreid may or may not become more apparent in following chapters...

In all honesty, Derek was still reeling from seeing – yet _another_ – side of Spencer Reid. Sure, the kid was always surprising him, he kept most of his personal life behind shutters, but he wasn’t simple. Wasn’t what most people figured he was – one dimensional. Smart, and nothing more. 

He was special, loyal was the word Derek would use, the kid was loyal to absolutely everyone he cared about.

_“It’s funny, huh?”_

_“Funny?” Penelope parroted, her tone questioning._

_“I should’ve realised this sooner,” Spencer continued. “Nobody knows things like the fact that JJ collects butterflies except for me.” She nodded, still trying to work out why the things Spencer was saying were all being spoken in an almost downcast tone of voice._

_She was no profiler, but you would have had to be an idiot to miss the way his attention had been directed firmly on the sheet of paper in his hands. “People tell me their secrets all the time,” he admitted quietly, gaze averted downwards. “I think it’s because they know… I don’t have anyone to betray them to.”_

Penelope had spoken to Derek, told him what their boy genius had said and how he had said it. With one of his small smiles, the one that never truly showed in his eyes.

Derek had wished he could have gotten a moment to talk to the kid about how _wrong_ he was for once in his life. Nobody confided in him because they knew he wouldn’t relay the information, the team talked because they were family.

And now, the youngest of that family was staring across the hallway of a murderer’s house, giving Hotch and Morgan the most careful gaze as he left his gun behind, trusting them to cover him as he moved towards their unsub.

“I know what he wants,” the kid said, inhaling uncertainly as he rocked on his heels. “I’m going to move to where he can see me.”

“Reid,” Hotch warned, his voice quiet compared to Morgan’s.

“Reid, no!” He hissed, like a parent scolding a child acting out. His voice was sharp, and his body immediately tensed much more than it already had been.

“Reid,” Hotch said again, anger lacing his tone.

“Fall back,” he told both his teammates and the few lingering members of SWAT, one of which he was currently handing his gun to. Hotch and Morgan had started up a chorus of ‘Reid – Reid, no,’ and it was clear to the younger agent how stressed they were getting. The SWAT agents were falling back just like he had suggested, but Morgan was darting across to the other side of the hallway, trying to cover the boy as much as he could, Hotch doing the same on the opposite side.

“Reid, wait a minute – wait.”

Spencer already had his hands raised placatingly, his empty gun holster clear on display as he took slow, deliberate steps forward. He was talking down the unsub, his voice calm and steady despite the flurry of irritation and pent up aggression displaying in his teammate’s two feet behind him.

“My name is Doctor Spencer Reid, from the FBI,” he pointed out, trying to unwind their unsub’s delusion. “You were in the hospital with my Mother, Diana.”

Derek was very aware of how he probably wouldn’t have ever known that if it weren’t for this unsub, or the fact that the more he realised how little he knew about Spence, the more him and Penelope had dug through his file.

“Your Mother, she explained it all to me,” the unsub continued after several moments of back and forth about the fire that had killed majority of his family.

“My Mother’s a paranoid schizophrenic who’d forget to eat if she wasn’t properly medicated and supervised,” Reid snapped right back, losing his composure for a brief moment. Hotch and Morgan looked at each other wordlessly.

Spencer’s Father had left when he was about ten years old, that much Derek had read up from his file. His Mother’s schizophrenia had to have been present throughout that period of their life up until the kid had her admitted when he was eighteen. That there was eight years that Spencer had spent taking care of his Mother all the while attending his last two years of high school, and first years at Caltech before joining the bureau.

No wonder the kid didn’t talk about himself at all, it raised too many unanswerable questions.

Right now, things like that didn’t matter because Reid had made his way to the end of the hall and pushed open the door where the unsub presumably sat. Morgan couldn’t actually see into the room, and he guessed Hotch couldn’t either.

“Hotch, Morgan?” Spencer said quietly. “I think maybe… it’d be better if you guys waited downstairs.” His tone didn’t convey much, and his back was facing away from the two of them, so they couldn’t make an accurate judgement on whether they were even about to consider the idea of leaving the kid upstairs with a killer.

“What?” Hotch whispered disbelievingly.

“Mr. Garner and I are just gonna – talk alone up here,” he answered hesitantly.

“Go ahead and talk, Reid. But we’re not going anywhere,” Morgan responded stubbornly. He was downright defiant sometimes, and Spencer wished they’d trust him on occasion.

Garner, their unsub, was continuing the delusion just as persistently as Morgan was refusing to fall back. Spencer had a fleeting hope that gently removing the impression that the man could be healed would stop his scarred, shaking thumb from hovering so tightly against the detonator in his fist.

“Mr. Garner, A Fisher King wound cannot be healed by somebody else. It – it’s not a wound of the body, it’s a wound of the memory. A wound of the mind – it’s – it’s a wound that only you can find, and a wound that only you can heal.”

“Just ask the question!” The man snapped, his thumb trembling worrying over the button that could blow not just Spencer, but his two irritatingly stubborn teammates, sky high.

“There’s only one question that matters, Mr. Garner. Only one really important question.” Spencer wanted Derek and Aaron _out_ so badly. He was at the end of his rope, and so was their unsub. That button would inevitably end up being pressed and Spencer needed two of the most important people in his life to get the hell away from this situation before they were all up in flames. “Can you forgive yourself?” He tried, one final time.

“I couldn’t get to them,” Garner admitted. A flicker of hope caught in Spencer’s throat and he couldn’t help but smile.

“If you tell me where she is, you can save Rebecca now,” he pointed out shakily. “Tell me where Rebecca is,” he plead.

“You already know. I sent your Mother the map.” He strained hard, and nothing was coming up in his memory.

“What map?” He tried fleetingly, already recognising the look of defeat on Garner’s disfigured face.

“Can I forgive myself?” The man repeated, watching Spencer already beginning to take hesitant steps backward. “No. I can’t.”

\----

Since the angered ‘ _just ask the question_ ,’ Morgan and Hotch hadn’t been able to hear much aside from their youngest agent’s gentle voice, and the responsive but hoarse replies of their unsub, all muffled enough that nothing was discernible. Their guns were still raised, and the thick worry that was present whenever the kid willingly put himself on danger’s doorstep still hung heavy over their heads.

After drawn out minutes of Reid talking Garner down, Morgan saw the undeniable retreat that started with unsure shuffles back into the hallway and grew into a full-fledged dash.

He made out the kid’s terrified order of ‘ _run!_ ’ A beeping, from somewhere near where he’d been standing, and the unmistakeable crash of the kid hurling himself forward onto the hardwood before heat engulphed the area and everything was overshadowed by a deafening roar.

When the orange flames died down enough for him to make out where the hell Spencer had thrown himself, Derek was already tearing a throw off the banister closest to him and skidding across the shrapnel covered floor.

“Don’t move, Reid! Don’t move!” He demanded, barely giving himself enough time to process the fact that they had been trained to move – especially when they were _on fire_.

Isn’t that what stop, drop, and roll was all about?

Spencer was currently on the floor, which was also partially covered in smoking, sputtering flames. His face was drawn tight into a wince, his arms scrabbling to push himself up – which was making it harder for Derek to pat him down with the throw, desperately smacking out the remnants of the fire waging a war with the poor kid’s slacks.

Spencer groaned, foregoing his partner’s orders to stop moving.

“Get him out. Let’s go – let’s go!” Aaron was yelling, already beginning to tear the kid off the floor as Derek dumped the throw and began shoving the younger agent to an upright position. He mimicked the urgency of the situation, bustling alongside his boss and the shell-shocked agent who was caught between them, limping his way towards the flight of stairs as best he could with his legs continually giving out.

Derek gripped one slender arm, helping Aaron who was one limb away from practically carrying the still smouldering kid. “The hell was that?” Hotch asked indignantly as the three of them stumbled down the hall.

“He had a bomb,” Spencer managed, a little pointlessly.

“You didn’t think we needed to know that?” Derek shot back.

“I _told_ you to go downstairs,” Spencer snapped.

“You didn’t say bomb – you left that part out!” Derek grit as they reached the stairs.

Hotch reluctantly let his grip slip, moving down the steps first, ready to catch Spencer if he toppled forward again. Morgan had both his arms caged around the genius’ torso, bear hug carrying him down the stairs.

“Stop, stop – _stopstop!_ ”

“What do you mean stop?!” Derek screamed. “The house is on fire, Reid, let’s go!”

The kid was waving his arms up and down, clearly overwhelmed, his hands trembling.

“Just let me think!” He yelled right back, ignoring Derek’s look of frustration and the way Aaron had dutifully halted halfway down the stairs to wait for the two of them. “Let me think!” He shrieked again. “He’s the Fisher King, this is his castle – Rebecca’s got to be here.”

“Reid, there may not be time for a search,” Hotch was holding up his arm, trying to persuade the younger that they had no time. “Let’s go,” he urged.

“Location’s on the map that he gave to my Mother,” Spencer muttered, overlooking the outstretched hand.

“Reid, all she told us about was that photo, let’s go!” Derek said more forcefully. He was too rushed to register the clicking of their genius’ mind.

“Down – she’s in the basement downstairs!” He yelped, throwing himself forward back into motion, passing Hotchner on the stairs and racing down them. Morgan, Hotch and the remainder of the SWAT team followed quickly behind.

Spencer passed the exit, rushing down another flight of stairs and charging his way into the basement with a tenacity that nobody who almost got themselves blown up should have. “She’s in here!” He was yelling, skirting into a bedroom where the victim’s voice was rising to meet his.

Hotch was on the woman in a second, wrenching at the chain beside her ankle, Morgan tugging the iron bed out of the way as Spencer fumbled with his pocket, pulling out a key to match the locks.

\----

Twenty minutes later and Hotch was overseeing the victim, mindful of his two other agents one ambulance over. He sighed, impatiently rubbing at the back of his neck as he caught brief snippets of Derek admonishing Spencer relentlessly.

The two of them were different in their approaches of dealing with the kid – Hotch was well aware of the fact that his time raising a son of his own had made his default scolding almost patient in a way. He kept his tone low, clear and precise, more so like a parent that a unit chief.

Derek however, Derek wasn’t the greatest at keeping his emotions in check. He only ever grilled Spencer out of the barely compartmentalised worry he held within most of the time. And when it came out, it only did so because Reid was a self-sacrificial moron sometimes.

“… – n’t ever pull that shit again, okay? You scared Hotch, you downright _terrified_ me –”

Hotch rounded the corner to see a petulant but slightly remorseful looking Spencer stretched out on a bed. There was an EMT crouched over his waist, a pair of surgical looking pliers in one gloved hand. He contained a smile when he noticed the fact that the younger agent’s hand was being (caringly) crushed between both of Derek’s.

“Ow – _ow!_ ”

There was a metallic sounding clink as the EMT dropped a bloodied looking _something_ into a kidney-shaped pan on the table beside Spencer’s head.

Derek looked up at Hotch as he leaned against the door to the ambulance, his amusement clear.

“Kid got himself impaled with part of a door handle during the explosion,” he explained bitterly. Hotch glanced down at where his hand was still carefully clutching Spencer’s as he spoke.


	2. 4x03 Minimal Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt 'Hearing Loss.'
> 
> Or, alternatively, Spencer and Derek scaring the shit out of Emily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gimme CM ideas on my tumblr you cowards.
> 
> But also, enjoy the fic.

Chaos was all around them, children being rounded out of the tunnels with their parents just a few steps behind. Rossi was hovering protectively at Prentiss’ side. Morgan had run his eyes over every notable injury she had, his fists clenching tighter around the gun when he thought about the cult leader and everything he had done so far.

Emily was hurt, Spencer was God knows where with Cyrus and his remaining followers, and they had only just finished evacuating all the victims when the threat of a bomb was raised.

“They’ve wired explosives,” Emily had managed as they exited the tunnels. She was bruised and overtired, and still maintained a professional mindset, working to get the children out, discussing the threats, warning the team.

One of the mother’s was helping funnel the kids out, but she was yelling at them all, intensifying the stress of the situation.

“This building’s gonna blow up!” She pushed each of them in the direction of the exit, children and parents rushed past where Morgan, Prentiss and Rossi stood.

“Where’s Reid?” He asked over the chorus of yelling and bustling all around them.

“He’s in the chapel with Cyrus.” Discomfort stirred in his chest, picturing Spencer holed up in a locked chapel with a religious nutcase that was intending to blow the entire operation up, with preferably as many people in range as possible.

_This was too much like Hankel, too much religious involvement, too much violence and not enough communication between the team and their youngest member who, once again, was a hostage._

“We gotta get you out of here,” Rossi ordered, leaving no room for argument.

“No, we’ve gotta get _Reid!_ ” Emily disputed, her eyes incredulous and focused on the younger agent she had been trying to protect since the beginning of this madness.

“Prentiss,” Morgan levelled as best he could. “I will get Reid,” they locked eyes. He glared, piercing the message that he cared as much as she did about the unaccounted-for genius. Wordlessly, she understood what he was saying. “Get out of here, get to safety,” he ordered, nodding in Rossi’s direction as he trusted him to get Prentiss out. “Go now,” he touched her shoulder, watching Rossi guiding her out.

He was thankful for a brief moment before one of the daughters broke away from the mother who had been ushering everyone out. There was an increase in yelling, Prentiss quickly raced to Morgan’s side as he held the mother back, trying to stop her from running back into the building. “I will get her for you,” he yelled as Prentiss pulled the frantic woman back. “Rossi, get her out of here.” 

He paused for the smallest of moments, watching as Prentiss, Rossi and the mother finally left the building, before he charged back into action. “Torre, get your boys. Let’s do this now,” he yelled to both the SWAT and bomb teams. He raised his gun, entering the tunnel with a fierce, inflating goal in his mind.

_Get Reid. Get out. Now._

\----

He’s crouched beside a follower he doesn’t know the name of. Cyrus is across from them, looking out a stained-glass window with a gun far larger than any of the guns Spencer is used to. “Jeremiah twenty-nine, eleven,” he says. “ _I have for you,_ declares the lord, _plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to bring you hope and a future._ ”

_This is too familiar. Quoting passages, hoping for a man who corrupts the Bible to relent, to let him go free._

“I – is blowing yourself up part of the prosperous future that God wants?” He asks the man, largely aware of Cyrus pushing himself back from his perch and marching toward them.

And suddenly, that enormous gun is jabbed against Spencer’s chest, and a part of himself screams for him to go quiet. Compliant, once again.

“You think you know the word better than I?” Cyrus asks, the barrel of the gun pressing against Spencer’s sternum dangerously.

“No,” he answers quickly. He plans to leave it at that, a simple ‘no’ and then keeping his mouth shut. But that was never how Spencer operated. “No, I’m just demonstrating that you can use the Bible to manipulate anything.” He takes a breath, silently admonishing himself because if the team showed up and found him covered in bruises like Emily, it would be his own damn fault.

“Matthew ten, twenty-four,” Cyrus counters. His eyes dip and drag across Spencer’s body. The young agent is perfectly aware of how thin and unthreatening his frame is. Sure, he understood how it could be played to his advantage, what unsub would be threatened by him? 

Who would look at him and think _undercover FBI Agent_ as opposed to _child victim interview expert._ After all, that was the reason he had been chosen for this operation, not Derek, not Aaron, not Rossi. “Do not suppose that I’ve come to the earth to bring peace,” Cyrus quoted. “I did not come to bring peace but a sword.”

He had endured many superficial injuries since joining the BAU over four years ago. Majority of them were small, insignificant aches and pains that were a part of the job. Several close-calls, Philip Dowd had been one of the first minor head injuries he had sustained, and a traumatising encounter as a whole. 

Being held hostage with Elle on a train controlled by a paranoid psychiatric patient experiencing a delusional episode hadn’t been the greatest moment on the job either. Being on fire during the Fisher King debacle surprisingly hadn’t phased him, but the close call Aaron and Derek had experienced as a result was terrifying.

Next, there was Hankel.

But Spencer didn’t like to think about that, or the subsequent withdrawal period that immediately followed.

He had managed to avoid a potentially horrifying experience with Aaron involving a particularly brutal convict that found the idea of tearing them apart to avoid execution to be especially pleasing.

And this is why, when Cyrus slammed the body of his weapon against Spencer’s entire torso, he could bite back the noise of pain and substitute it for a pained growl as he stumbled backward. “You cannot convert my brothers,” Cyrus seethed.

The second hit was more manageable, seeing as Spencer anticipated it and the unhappy creaking of his chest and abdomen which followed. He unceremoniously dropped to the carpet, holding his torso protectively and scooting until his back was against the wall, this time keeping his mouth pressed in one firm line of silence.

Cyrus had a detonator in one hand, and Spencer recognised his next sentences as ones that almost always ended poorly. Final words were never a good sign. “No one had to follow,” Cyrus said evenly. “God could have stopped me,” he muttered, shaking his head and lifting the rectangular object in his hands.

_At least now, as I’m blown sky high_ , Spencer thought bitterly, _everyone else should be fine_. And so, he closed his eyes.

\----

In hindsight, closing his eyes before the moment where he genuinely believed he was about to get blown up for the _second_ time now, probably wasn’t the greatest idea he’d ever had.

He flinched at the loud noises, expecting pain and then the dark abyss of unknown – he was dramatic before death, forgive him – but nothing came.

Spencer blinked, opening his eyes and swiftly diverting them as he was met with the corpses of Cyrus and his follower. There were bullet wounds in their chests, and the detonator had thankfully rolled its way out of Cyrus’ hand to where it now laid innocently against the carpet.

“Clear!” Someone yelled, and then Derek was perched beside him.

“You all right, kid?” Spencer let out a breath, pushing himself up off the floor and waving away the hand Derek offered.

“Fine,” he lied. “Where’s Emily?” 

“We got her out of here.” He relaxed, giving himself a moment to bend over and hug his midsection while Derek was preoccupied dealing with the SWAT team. “Sweetheart, come with me,” Derek yelled. Spencer tensed for a moment because – damn, that was a new nickname that surpassed pretty boy by miles – but when he looked up there was a young girl. He recognised her as two things, Cyrus’ wife and the person Derek had probably been yelling at. “We need to get you out of here, come on.”

Derek gestured with his arm, obviously still rushed to the point where Spencer wondered if there was still a chance of the buildings going up in flames.

The young girl cast her eyes downward, seeing Cyrus’ corpse. Spencer stepped forward, about to help his teammate guide her out of there when her eyes caught the detonator and he realised, there wasn’t anything they could do but run. He knew the girl, she was completely and utterly brainwashed by the cult, and there wasn’t a single chance in Hell that she would hesitate to finish her husband’s work.

“Run!”

One of the things he appreciated most about Derek was, even though he was often stubborn when it came to trusting Spencer’s judgement in the field, he could tell when something was a suggestion and when it was an order.

So, when Spencer screamed at him to run, he turned, and he did.

\----

Since the explosion, the yelling and disgruntled sounds of protest from children and their parents had gotten worse. Emily’s head was pounding, she likely had a concussion, but she was perfectly aware of the flames surrounding the building she was almost positive both Morgan and Reid were still inside.

“Reid?! Morgan!?” Vaguely she could make out the shape of painfully empty entrance and exit points of the buildings through the billowing flumes of smoke. “Reid?” She called again, much quieter as she stared into the flames. “Morgan?”

“Prentiss,” she turned, seeing Hotch climbing the steps she had gingerly carried herself halfway up. Hotch was often unreadable, and in a moment as disorienting as this – with two of their primary team members wholly unaccounted for – when a building had erupted in flames only minutes beforehand… She could only profile his expression as one of loss.

She paled, shaking her head at the unit chief. _They were fine. They were fine, they always were._ Bruises and fractures were common, as well as bombs like this one when you worked this job, and Emily was confident enough in Morgan and Reid’s ability to get themselves out. Confident enough, in fact, to overlook her profile of Hotch’s face in favour of turning back to the building and just simply _waiting_.

\----

The force of the blast was worse than the Fisher King’s homemade explosive, Derek decided. It had thrown him at least several feet, and Garner’s hadn’t even knocked him to the floor. Tertiary blast injuries, he knew they were.

Every inch of his body throbbed when he shifted. His head was pounding, and a dull but incessant whining filled his ears. He groaned, feeling the vibration of it in his chest. The room around him was quickly becoming smokier, and the heat was bordering on intolerable.

He pressed the flats of his palms against the carpet, pushing himself up and getting his feet beneath him. He stumbled slightly as he stood, balance rocking unsteadily. He expected being in an explosion of this calibre would be dissimilar to cinematic portrayals of the kind, and yet he still winced at the high-pitched ringing that raged in both his ears. A primary blast injury, which was far from ideal considering Hotch hadn't even been cleared to fly since his own noise-induced hearing issues.

Derek jolted when something touched his forearm, instinctively pulling back and readying himself to reach for his weapon.

Through the smoke, the blurred outline of someone pushed forward. After a moment to adjust, Derek relaxed, recognising the features of his colleague.

Spencer was moving his mouth, both hands now reaching through the smoke and weakly wrapping around one of Derek’s forearms.

“You okay?” He asked, feeling more than hearing his own voice. He couldn’t make out much through the haze in the room, or at least not enough to tell whether Spencer had any visible injuries.

The younger man mouthed something that looked something like ‘let’s go’ before he was trying to move. Derek supported him with two hands on his waist, stumbling blearily towards the exit tunnel the SWAT team had filed out of before the blast.

The hallway was much worse, he couldn’t see a foot ahead of himself. He tightened his grip on Spencer’s sides and pushed him forward. It was difficult to breathe, and he could see Spencer tucking his face beneath the collar of his dress shirt in front of him. He would have done the same to prevent how much he had begun to cough now, if it weren’t for the tight, thick and heavy bulletproof vest that was strapped on top of his shirt.

Eventually, after Derek was beginning to feel like stopping to try and catch a single breath between coughs, Spencer started elevating. Stairs, he realised after a moment of confusion. The younger agent had reached the stairs up and out.

When Spencer stood upright again, and Derek could finally see the sky, he leaned forward until his hands found their place back on the leaner man’s waist.

He could see Emily, covering her face and climbing up to meet them. “We’re okay,” he managed, turning and lifting one arm away from Spencer to cough into his elbow. His throat and nostrils stung with every breath, and the man beside him was coughing just as viciously.

Derek let his last arm fall free of Spencer as both of them paused to hack up what felt like a lung. Emily was reaching out for the younger agent, and Derek could see Aaron and David at the base of the steps watching them with relief.

He choked, heaving in lungfuls of air and resting his arms on his knees as Emily pulled Spencer into her arms, both of them clinging onto each other.

\----

Emily squeezed Spencer tight, letting him bury his face against her shoulder. Derek was coughing beside them, covering his mouth with one arm.

“Are you alright?” She asked, carefully pulling back to give Spencer the once-over. The younger man turned to look back at the building, breathing heavily. “Spencer?” She repeated, touching his arm. “Are you alright?”

“What?” He shouted, squinting at her.

“Are you alright?” She said, much louder now. There was noise all around them, victims of the church running around, hugging each other, authorities spread about the scene and ambulance sirens from far off. All the commotion was easily ignorable, and she had been able to hear Hotch minutes beforehand.

“Yeah?” She levelled him with a gaze.

“Let’s get checked over,” Emily suggested, speaking as loudly as she could. Hotch ascended the steps, jogging towards them. “You too,” she waved an arm at Morgan who turned in her direction and raised an eyebrow before coughing again. “I don’t think they can hear much,” she pointed out once Hotch reached them.

“Morgan, can you hear me?” He asked, shifting closer to the other agent as Emily gripped Reid’s wrist and moved him forward.

Morgan tilted his head, turning so his left ear was angled at Hotch. “Can you hear me?” The unit chief repeated.

“Hardly,” Morgan answered, as loud as Reid had. Hotch met Emily’s eyes, nodding towards the ambulances.

“You take them to get looked over, I need to help Rossi.” Emily nodded, already walking down the steps. “I trust you’ll let the medics look you over too, Prentiss.” She sighed, but gave Hotch an appreciative glance before walking the two agents towards the sirens they probably couldn’t make out.

She stood outside the ambulance while Morgan and Reid were subjected to a hearing test, on the phone with Garcia.

“So, it looks like we now have three agents down who aren’t going to be cleared to fly anywhere for a while.” Garcia was tapping feverishly in the background of the call.

“And they shouldn’t be in the field near any gunfire, either,” Garcia added. “Basically, their ears need some well-deserved nap time.” Emily scoffed, smiling at the phone before quickly looking up into the ambulance.

Morgan was frowning, but that was a perpetual state he was often in after cases that went awry. Reid was swinging his feet about, jolting when the EMT stuck a flashlight near his ear canal.

“Okay, I’ve got to go, the medics are talking to me. Call Hotch and check in!” Emily said hurriedly before snapping shut the cell phone.

“Agent Morgan’s left ear should be alright. Like we said before, both him and Doctor Reid are going to need to steer clear of any loud, unnecessary sound for the next few weeks.” Emily nods, glancing up to where the second EMT was lying Reid down on the bed.

“Is he all right?” She asks quickly, watching as he winces against the EMT’s fingers.

“We suspect there’s a cracked rib or two, he’ll need an X-ray at the hospital.” _Of course he does,_ she shakes her head. Morgan is already stepping down from the vehicle.

“I’m going to go help Hotch,” he says.

“No, you’re coming to the hospital with Reid and I,” she argues. Morgan has worked out he can hear with his left ear, and he looks odd tilted to the side this way as he listens. She grins at him, slightly indulging in the moment. “Besides, you two will have plenty of time with Hotch on the drive back to Quantico.”

“Drive?” Morgan asks deadpan.

“Mhm.”

“That’s like, more than a twenty-four trip,” he says stiffly. Emily smiles again, remembering the last case they had worked.

_“Anyone get directions back to the airstrip?”_

_“The town has only got one road, we'll find it.” Morgan was stubborn but persistent._

_“Yeah, Morgan doesn't like to follow directions. You didn't know about that?” She had jabbed._

_“Yeah, he likes to 'vibe it,’” Reid had added, laughing._

_“Okay, smartass, you drive.”_

Emily smirked, shrugging innocently as she climbed into the ambulance herself. Reid waved at her from the opposite bed, wincing as he pushed his shirt back down when the EMT turned to begin treating her wounds instead.

Morgan climbs back into the vehicle and sits beside Reid, looking defiant.

“Road trip,” she teases, laughing again as Reid quirked his head in confusion and Morgan rolled his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give @spidersonangst @febufluff-whump (on Tumblr) all the credit, the only reason this is happening this month is because of them!


	3. 4X01 Mayhem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer's never felt pain and rage in a wet clump like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I know this is technically set before the previous chapter, but I feel like having a progression and this seemed like a nicer epilogue.
> 
> But now I also wanna write one based on this episode (and the last episode of season 3) except Hotch and Spencer are the ones going to the SUV.

So, here’s the thing.

Morgan had worked in the bomb squad during his time as an officer in Chicago. He was well versed, could match Reid’s knowledge of the finer mechanical workings of an explosive. However, Hotch had pointed out, oh so kindly, that one of his only flaws as an agent was the lack of trust he had in his teammates.

This may be why he is now currently considering – very seriously, he may add – high jacking an ambulance with an active explosive and driving it out of range.

Logically, he knew it was dangerous and idiotic in a way he could hardly fathom. And he knew Hotch would kill him if he could manage to before both Garcia and Reid did the job for him. But none of them were here right now, they were clearing the rest of the hospital. Well, that wasn’t exactly true because currently Garcia was in his ear, telling him to evacuate the building like everybody else.

“No,” he argues weakly and unhappily. “As soon as the airways are clear, this thing is going up.”

Garcia is stuttering now, telling him he’s got ‘ _like three minutes._ ’

He feels like an asshole for making Garcia direct him through this, and for blatantly lying about the very obvious gunshots that were fired at the back of the ambulance as he pulled out from the garage.

“What was that?”

“It was nothing, it’s nothing. Just talk to me,” he yells over the screeching of the tyres.

\----

Prentiss, Hotch and Rossi flank Reid on all sides as the four of them enter the garage. Their unsub – or one of them – is firing at a vehicle, screaming and yelling with spittle flying out of his face in all directions. He’s got a gun in one hand, phone in the other, and the bulge of a knife in his back pocket.

_God damn self-sacrificing, idiot._ Reid thinks as he watches the ambulance pulling out of the garage. _Can’t leave him alone for a single minute without him pulling the hero act._ He’s only bitter for a moment, because the task at hand overwhelms his worry for a brief moment.

Their unsub is holding the phone, brandishing it like a weapon in the direction Morgan had just pulled out from.

“I’ll blow your agent up!” He screeches, his hand still as a rock, far from unsteady.

“You don’t need to do that, put the phone down and drop your gun,” Hotch interjects. Their unsub is breathing heavy, eyes filled with desperation. He raises the gun to his head.

“I’m not afraid of death,” he hisses. “But don’t think I won’t detonate that explosive with my last breath.” Reid shifts from one foot to another, squeezing the handle of his gun until his knuckles pale.

“I’m going after him,” he says eventually. He speaks quietly to Rossi, ensuring the three of them can talk their unsub down. “If anything goes wrong and that bomb is detonated, I’m going to end up being the first responder,” he points out hurriedly. Hotch arches one brow, pondering before giving a curt nod, all without taking his eyes off their unsub.

Reid’s already pulling his credentials from his pocket and running out of the garage, ready to convince the cop stop outside to give him a vehicle.

\----

Garcia’s voice is shaky and backlit with worry when she finally answers Reid’s call through their shared comm line.

His breath catches thankfully in his throat when he realises the call signals are being blocked by their wonderful tech analyst, but the relief is short lived.

“Derek, you don’t have much time,” Garcia shrills.

“What do you mean? You’re blocking the signals, he’s gonna be fine,” he says quickly. Garcia takes a wobbly inhale and Reid can hear the fright in her voice.

“I’m doing everything I can,” she promises, and really, Reid knows that already. She’s apologetic and she shouldn’t have to be. Garcia understands, always does and always will. “But once the satellite changes position…”

She trails off and there’s not much to say.

“Is he on the line?” Reid asks, his voice barely above a whisper. His foot is down on the gas, sirens on. He’s lucky Garcia tampered with the traffic flow, because he’s able to follow the line of green lights Derek left in his wake.

“Yeah,” Derek answers for him. His voice is strained, and Spencer can hear the undertone of _I know you’re mad_ in his teammate’s voice.

“Signal’s coming back online. Thirty seconds to full coverage,” Garcia provides. Spencer’s breaking the speed limit at an unmeasurable rate. His lower lip is being crushed between his teeth.

“Morgan, please –” He begs. The sirens in both his own liberated cop car and Derek’s ambulance drone on endlessly through the line. Spencer inhales steeply and is shocked when his chest hitches. There’s a lump in his throat and he knows it’s because of all the times they’ve been in danger, this is an occasion where he doesn’t have faith in Derek’s ability to keep himself alive. “Derek…”

“Drive to the opening an get the _hell_ out,” Garcia says. Her voice is sharper than Spencer has ever heard it.

Through the blur of cars pulling out of his way, Spencer can make out the entrance to a park at the end of the road. Lights flicker ahead of him and he knows it’s Derek.

“Please get out,” he chokes. He’s white knuckling the steering wheel, matching the ambulance’s speed.

“There’s something I really want you to know, guys.” The ambulance is past the opening to the park and Spencer isn’t far behind. He keeps expecting to see the door open and for Derek to roll out safely, but he can barely see anything once the darkness of the reserve swallows everything but the red, blue flashing lights.

“Twenty seconds,” Garcia warns.

“Save it. Just get out,” Spencer orders. He’s trying to be commanding but in his heart, he knows Derek was never the type to yield to his every request.

“No, no, no, I’m not quite there yet.” His voice has calmed slightly, and it terrifies Spencer. Derek sounds resigned, not rushed.

Whoever Garcia is working with gives them a countdown.

“Derek…” Spencer begs.

“Hey, just listen to me.” Why Derek is consoling him at a time like this, Spencer doesn’t know. All he knows is that he hates it. The countdown is at eight and his stomach is bottoming out as he reaches the entrance to the park reserve.

“Derek, please.” The lights of the ambulance are blurring, and everything looks like its underwater. Spencer doesn’t even register the tears in his eyes. _This was his teammate of years. His best friend. So, so much more. He meant everything._

“You know what you are?” Derek says over the sound of Spencer’s hitched breaths.

_I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t care what I am, I care what you are. And you better be alive or so help me –_

“We lost tracking,” Garcia says. She sounds almost hysterical through the staticky earpiece. “Morgan!”

Spencer opens his mouth to yell, or to beg again, but the ground starts to shake beneath the wheels of the police car, and he’s blinded by a flume of light.

He gawks, wrenching himself against the seatbelt as he hits the breaks.

The explosion is violent and destructive. Pattering and clanging sounds fill the car as bits of debris shower his windshield. He blinks, the mushroom cloud of smoke and flames ingrained into the back of his eyelids as Garcia’s yells fill his ear.

Through the flaming wreckage he can barely make out the crumpled, skeletal remains of the ambulance fifty yards ahead of him. He made a small, suffocated sound. He’s certain his heart fell out of his chest. Why else would he feel this empty?

“Reid? Reid! What do you see? What’s happening?!”

He sniffles, shakily unlatching the door and stumbling out of it onto the grass.

He can feel the heat from this far back, can see the blazing mass ahead of him through the darkness. There was no doubt in his mind, if the ambulance wasn’t here, the hospital would be rubble right now.

Spencer squeezes his eyes shut; jaw locked tersely. He turns his back. _He doesn’t want to see this. Doesn’t want to wait until he can make out a body._

His chest constricts. He can still hear Garcia talking to him, trying her best to draw words out of him. With the panic caving in his chest, it’ll be like drawing blood from a stone.

Breathing fills the comm line and Spencer drowns it out along with the crackle of the wreckage behind him. 

He never found his own feelings to be practical or helpful. Spencer thinks, the Wizard of Oz never made more sense to him until this moment. The Wizard had been right. _Hearts are never practical until they are made unbreakable._

Now, more than ever, he almost misses the withdrawn, isolated manor of his childhood. Caring about someone he’s lost hurts so much more, Spencer decides.

“I’ll tell you, what you guys are to me,” a breathless voice says.

He can register Garcia’s relief when she inhales, but the voice speaking still sounds fuzzy. It’s so entirely unreal that he almost believes Garcia is playing a recording.

“You’re my God-given solace,” Derek exhales.

Spencer bites down harder on his lip. He sniffles once more, wipes the back of his fist against his eyes and turns.

Derek’s figure is dark and silhouetted starkly against the blazing mess behind him. From this far, Spencer can still see the way his entire torso heaves with each breath. He’s clutching his earpiece in one hand, spare arm resting at his opposite hip.

“Derek,” Spencer says quietly. His feet hit the grass and he ignores the way his ankles bend as he stumbles over the twisted, flaming heaps of ambulance and explosive remnants.

Spencer is horribly aware of the tears on his face, and how his cheeks have the tendency to flush unflatteringly when he’s upset.

Derek had seen Spencer’s form moving abruptly closer. His hair was longer now, almost at his shoulders. It spreads out behind his neck as he runs, and its moments like these that make him remember why he calls the kid _Pretty Boy_ so often.

Derek’s mouth is open, ready to speak when Spencer throws himself at him.

The weight of their bulletproof vests don’t do much to quell the desperation clawing at the inside of Spencer’s throat, but the feeling of warm, sweat-dampened skin beneath his arms does.

Derek’s neck prickles as Spencer’s arms wrap around it, and he goes still when the kid hooks the curve of his chin over his shoulder and presses his forehead against the side of his head. “Are you hurt?” Spencer asks from where he’s tucked away beside the older agent’s ear.

“No,” he expires. One of Spencer’s hands unfurl, running over the expanse of his chest and catching on a shard of metal that has lodged itself into the material of his vest. The younger man pulls back, keeping one hand braced against Derek’s shoulder as the other delicately pulls and flicks the shard away.

“Good,” he says. His brows lower and his lips press shut into a firm line. “Because what in the ever-loving _shit_ was that?!”

The lithe arms which had been tenderly wrapped around him tugged backward. Spencer hit his chest, right in the centre of his vest where the debris had been.

“Ah – _ow._ Spence –”

“NO! What were you thinking, Morgan?” He smacks his chest again, and Derek must admit, the kid packs more of a hit then he expected. “Huh? I want to know. You were not _seriously_ about to do that to me, were you?”

“What? I – I wasn’t –” Spencer is gripping his shoulders, small fingers digging in uncomfortably. “Kid, just calm down, okay?”

Wrong thing to say. Evidently.

Spencer’s eyes narrow, the fire reflecting in the normally brown irises dangerously. He folds his arms, leaving Derek cold and unassured.

“Do _not_ tell me to calm down,” he bristles. “How could you do that?”

Derek opens his mouth, then closes it again quickly.

“I’ll call back,” Garcia says quietly into the comm line.

Spencer’s cheeks are wet, neck pale and hands tightened to stop the trembling. His façade is good, almost believable, but Derek’s been profiling body language since before the kid even set foot in the BAU.

“What if the signal came back online before you…” Spencer pauses, closing his eyes and exhaling through his nose. “What if you had –”

“Kid,” Derek interrupts. His stupidly reassuring hands reaching out to rest on either side of Spencer’s neck. “ _What if_ , doesn’t matter.” Spencer scoffs, rolling his eyes but not moving away from Derek’s arms. “Because I’m fine, and so is everyone else who would’ve been in that hospital.”

“You can’t just – you can’t tell me it’s fine because you’re okay. That’s not fair.” Derek winces, looking away from the pair of watery eyes that are settled on his concretely, dark with accusation. “You know it’s not fair,” Spencer continues. “You were so angry at me after the Fisher King,” he points out, less ferociously that he may have minutes ago.

Derek hangs his head, still breathing heavily. He wants to apologise, even if he would do it again, but Spencer is dead set on ramming home his point. “You know what it’s like t – to know one of us is dead.” _Spencer, dead, cold. Lying on the floor of a cabin. The back of his skull bloody from the seizure, eyes rolled back in his head, froth at the corners of those lips. Chest unmoving._

Derek has seen Spencer cry once in all their years as co-workers, and it was after over forty-eight hours of captivity at the hands of an unsub.

Seeing the tears now, it matches the feeling in his chest after finding the kid in that graveyard.

“How could you risk doing that to me?” Spencer’s voice is quaking now, like his fists had been.

“I couldn’t leave it in the garage,” Derek contends. “I didn’t – I had no idea how far away the four of you were, and the civilians –”

Spencer hiccups, making a mangled sound that’s halfway between a sob and a laugh.

“God, I hate you sometimes,” he murmurs. 

Derek takes his cue and pulls the kid back against his chest.

“Not really,” Derek says into the crook of his neck. Spencer has his chin resting back over the smooth bend of Derek’s shoulder, letting the man’s hands cage his waist supportively as they both take a moment to just _breathe._

“No,” Spencer agrees. “I don’t.”

_Quite the opposite, in fact._

**Author's Note:**

> Give @spidersonangst @febufluff-whump (on Tumblr) all the credit, the only reason this is happening this month is because of them!


End file.
